after the magic

This is my latest poem. The assignment was to write a non-sentimental poem about Christmas. I tried to stay true to our family's Christmas morning, though I may have exaggerated the negative for the purposes of the assignment. I just want that to be clear so you don't think all I remember is the bad. I basically took a spin on some of my best holiday memories.

After the Magic

Branches hang limp and tired after being cut

from their roots two days after Thanksgiving.

Hundreds of needles blanket the floor,

and the green Sprite bottle that Dad rigged

to water the trunk

sits on the rust-colored carpet.

Sweet smells of pine, frosted cookies, German pancakes, syrup,

and smoke from an old, dirty wood-burning fireplace

are gross smells to tired noses.

Presents have been opened and sit idly on the floor

amid green, red, and gold bows and paper--
Christmas vomit--

that only hours before had been beautifully wrapped

around big and little rectangle boxes and stuffed beneath the tree.

Cabbage Patch dolls, bright pink Barbie cars,

jeweled trolls with blue and orange and green hair,

Legos, Connects, Micro Machines,

makeup, CD players, and New Kids on the Block posters

now lie scattered around the room.

Chocolate oranges cracked against the hard piano bench,

lifesaver books torn apart by sticky fingers,

and seven pairs of bleary eyes look around the room,

one big holiday mess,

and no one can eat breakfast

until the paper has been burned in the fireplace

and the bows have been gathered in garbage bags,

imitations of Santa's bundle,

and saved for next year.

"Don't touch my cars!"

"Give me back my Barbie!"

"We're going to be late to Grammy's house!"

"Come help me set the table!"

"Don't burn those bows!"

"It's my turn to take a shower!"

"You're not helping clean up!"

The holiday magic has been replaced by the whines of children and parents who awoke

three hours before the sun came up.